The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “I’ll never again be full of the gumption and pluck I used to have,” Zane said as Stefan and Nail struggled to help him climb atop Lilly, the strain of the effort breaking beads of sweat on Zane’s brow. “Everything on me hurts, Nail. My guts. My legs. My brain.”

  Whilst helping Zane crawl safely onto the pony, Nail saw the raw slave brand on his own inner wrist, the shape of a broken S, red and welling. It soon would blister.

  “That red-haired lady who branded us was a witch if I ever saw one,” Stefan said, eyeing the fresh slave mark on the underside of his own wrist too. “Pure evil in her.”

  “Bless Shawcroft for savin’ us.” Gisela made the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over her heart. “And bless you, too, Nail, for leading us through them mines.”

  Feeling nothing like a savior, Nail began divvying up the gear from Lilly’s various packs, keeping Shawcroft’s pouch and the ax for himself. The mere presence of the ax set his nerves on edge. It seemed the weapon had some kind of hold on him, making him feel invincible one moment, vulnerable the next. He knew he was no hero. He’d left Ava Shay to whatever fate awaited her at the hands of the enemy—if she were still alive. No, Gisela shouldn’t be thanking him.

  “Everything hurts so much,” Zane said. “I’m goin’ to die, ain’t I, Liz Hen?”

  “You’re goin’ to be fine,” she answered.

  “I wager if I ate anything, it would just spill from the hole in my side.”

  “We ain’t got no food anyway,” Liz Hen said.

  “It’s my fault there ain’t no food,” Dokie said. “What a miserable couple of days.”

  Losing the pony and food had essentially rendered all Shawcroft’s preparations for naught. It wasn’t Dokie’s fault the food was gone. Nail knew it was his own. He should have guided Bedford Boy over that bridge himself.

  “I’m hungry too,” Liz Hen said. “I reckon I’m the most hungry of us.”

  “Can’t we eat something?” Gisela asked.

  Nail’s stomach ached too. He hadn’t eaten but a few strips of elk jerky since the Mourning Moon Feast three days before. But there was nothing to be done about it. Not unless Stefan could shoot a rabbit or a deer with his bow. Shawcroft had taught Nail how to identify over twenty different kinds of animals by track alone. But they had yet to come across any signs of wildlife. They hadn’t seen any game since exiting the mines.

  “Without food, we’ll be reduced to stumbling skeletons in days,” Liz Hen said. “We’ll get starvation sickness. The black gums. Swollen tongues. Bleeding eyes and teeth dropping out of our heads. Lockjaw. Maybe even the staggers.”

  Gisela’s eyes were wide with fear. “I don’t want the staggers.”

  “You’ll only get everybody scared with that kind of talk, Liz Hen,” Stefan said. “I’m sure we’ll get enough food when we reach the abbey.”

  “And when will that be?” Liz Hen demanded.

  “By the end of the day,” Nail said.

  “A person will wilt away after only a few days without food.”

  Dokie said, “My pa had a goat from Adin Wyte he kept chained behind our house. Nobody never fed it, leastwise not that I ever seen. It lived for years.”

  “It likely nibbled the grass,” Liz Hen said.

  “Weren’t no grass out back.”

  “  ’Cause the goat ate it, you stupid.” Liz Hen smacked Dokie on the forehead with the back of her hand.

  “I ain’t stupid.”

  “Well, I ain’t goin’ years without food,” she announced. “I’ll find some grass and nibble like a goat if I have to. I’ll eat anything. Leaves. Pinecones. Tree bark.”

  “I’ve heard that a man can survive on moss and lichen scraped from the eastern face of a standing-stone,” Dokie offered.

  “Not the western face, or northern?” Liz Hen asked. “Or what if the stones are set at an angle?”

  “Standing-stones are never set at an angle,” Dokie said proudly. “The stones of the ancients always face north and south.”

  “What if they’re round?”

  Dokie’s face twisted in puzzlement. “I’m just saying one can survive on moss and lichen if need be.”

  “Rubbish,” Liz Hen snorted. “No gibbering craven goat, even if it was from the arse end of Adin Wyte, would nibble lichen from a rock.”

  Dokie’s eyes lit up again. “I also heard you can suck milk from the stock of a green willow reed.”

  “Suck milk from a willow reed,” Liz Hen scoffed. “That sounds about as useless as sucking on a fat man’s nipple. The only green living willow reeds I know of are down by the sea. Ain’t gonna do us much good up here.”

  “Best not to speak of food we don’t have,” Nail said, putting an end to their talk. Leaving only a few minor implements tied to Lilly, he loaded a bundle of furs onto Stefan’s back and spread the lighter stuff out between the others. Stefan helped him strap the huge battle-ax onto his back. Nail thought his legs might buckle under the weight.

  Onward they went, up the trail worn into the bitter, loamy soil of the mountain forest. Dokie’s limp was near gone. He wasn’t poking at his rear as much as before. And they traveled faster now that Zane was riding on Lilly. Beer Mug brought up the rear.

  As he struggled to find a comfortable pace, Nail could hear the others shuffling along behind. The battle-ax was not the only burden Nail carried. As he trudged up the path, he began to feel the sorrow as the realization of the loss of his master began to claw at his heart. The man was the closest thing to a family he had ever had. And a Bloodwood killed him. Shawcroft had called him son before the end. That thought warmed him some. But briefly. Did he ever give two hoots about my art, my drawings? Nail figured it didn’t matter now. With the armies of the White Prince destroying everything of worth, there wasn’t much use aspiring for a better life. His dream of pursuing art was at an end.

  As he walked, Nail would quickly suppress his emotion one minute, only to have it rise up in him again. There were moments he could not breathe for the sorrow that cleaved his heart. He thought of talking to the others about it. But what could any of them do? The others had lost more than he. It was best he keep his feelings hidden. Besides, who am I to mourn for anything? Especially after what I did to Ava Shay.

  The first storm arrived with sickening speed. Rain drove horizontally straight into their faces, half blinding Nail. The others wrapped themselves in the hides and furs Shawcroft had provided. But there weren’t enough, so Nail went without. It wasn’t long before he grew so tired he felt like folding into exhaustion with each step. The ax along with his waterlogged clothing and chest-plate armor grew heavier and heavier until he figured he might as well be carrying Zane.

  Drooped over Lilly’s back, Zane looked the most comfortable of them all. Stefan dragged Gisela along, her small hand engulfed in his, the other hand clutching her hatchet—she hadn’t let go of the thing since taking it from the pony’s pack yestermorn.

  For a time, the trail took them up a steep mountain studded with boulders, treacherously slick with mud, the occasional gnarled tree root jutting up into their path. The rain turned to hail that pelted their faces. Their path grew increasingly rough, some of the mud underfoot stiffening, turning to ice. Every step was a slippery one.

  Beer Mug growled. Nail looked into the trees. Two cold, pale orbs caught his attention—a silver-wolf. Its piercing, predatory eyes watched them. Nail knew that a lone silver-wolf would rarely attack a man, and would never approach a group. But a pack of wolves could be trouble. And they were in the heart of silver-wolf country now. With such beasts lurking amid the woods, Nail knew that Sør Sevier knights and freezing to death were not the only things they need worry about. What he feared most was being spotted by a saber-toothed mountain lion. A saber-tooth would stalk a group of men for hours and rush straight at them, singling out the weakest.

  With that thought in mind, wet, cold, and miserable, Nail continued on. The silver-wolf watched them pass by.

  N
ear nightfall they were still a day away from reaching the abbey, and a second storm arrived. It sapped their strength and stopped them cold. The place they chose for shelter was a lonely wooded glade where a half-frozen stream meandered through a copse of pine dusted in light snow. The grove was studded with boulders the color of bone in the dwindling light.

  Stefan and Gisela, the latter with hatchet still in hand, immediately went in search of kindling to start a fire. It was growing viciously cold, and Nail warned her not to touch the hatchet’s iron blade lest her hand freeze to it.

  Liz Hen cleared a flat spot of ground for Zane, threw a blanket down, then helped her brother from Lilly’s back. Beer Mug curled up on the ground next to Zane immediately. Liz Hen covered them both with one of Shawcroft’s furs and started scratching away the snow and half-frozen moss on the ground with a stick, digging a fire pit. Dokie helped her.

  It was a struggle, but Nail removed the battle-ax from his back by himself. He set it on the ground near Lilly. When he stood up and stretched, it was as though Laijon had blessed him with winged feet. He thought he might float away in the icy breeze.

  It was bitterly cold as the mournful wind picked up. He could feel the insides of his nostrils freezing together. That dampened his spirits. Under Shawcroft’s care he had never been caught this high up in the mountains when it was this soul-jarringly cold. He couldn’t even hear the sound of Gisela’s hatchet cracking wood anymore above the wail of the wind.

  He looked at the tall, leaning boulders nearest him, hoping to take shelter from the wind behind one. They were arranged in a crude circle of sorts. He found himself drifting curiously closer to them. There were markings carved into the rock at eye level, barely visible, blanketed in layers of lichen, moss, and snowflakes. A sinking feeling began to grow in his gut as he noticed that these markings were similar to the marks he had on his own body, similar to the red-glowing symbols he’d seen under the sea whilst in the clutches of the dread mermaid. His heart was thumping in his chest now, heavy and hard. He could taste his own fear in the back of his throat as he ran a hand over the nearest carving. Indeed, it was in the shape of a cross. Next to that was the Sør Sevier slave mark—the broken S—just like the one on the underside of his wrist. And under those two carvings was what looked like a row of shark’s teeth, exactly like the tattoo on his bicep. Nail felt light-headed. There had been similar such markings near the entrance to the Roahm Mines on the Written Wall. He thought of the battle-ax, the blue stone, and Shawcroft’s last words: Many things are found hidden beneath the ground. Men and kings and ancient warriors and the weapons they forged. All are eventually buried. Ages pass and important truths are hidden, forgotten. Yet most men never look beyond the surface of their farms and forests and within their own castle walls for knowledge. But those who search the deep . . . find salvation.

  “What are they for?” Nail turned at the sound of Dokie’s voice. “There have been standing-stones like this all along the trail. Why so many? And those markings carved there. After the lightning strike, crosses just like that were burned all over my skin, from my armor. And the shark bites too. Do you know I have dreams of such markings, Nail? What are they for, the markings, my dreams?”

  Nail remained silent, shaken by Dokie’s confession of dreams and the coincidence of similar markings on his own flesh.

  Dokie continued, “Some say demon lords crafted stones like these in a bygone age. Others claim it was oghuls cast down from the stars who left them thousands of years before men arrived on the Five Isles. Some say it was fey creatures, ancestors of the Vallè, who placed them here.”

  Liz Hen came up behind them. “I heard they were put here by the druid Mia worshippers.” Her eyes were dark and her brow furrowed. “They used to practice their goddess worship and witchcraft in the hidden places of the high country.”

  “Goddess worship.” Dokie made the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over his heart. He looked haunted. “These stones frighten me something awful. They frighten me almost as much as being hit by lightning, or swimming in an ocean full of sharks.”

  “We made a grave error coming here.” Liz Hen backed away from the circle of stones. “One shouldn’t venture into these mountains without a necklace of bear claws, mermaid teeth, rat tails, or some other amulet to ward off the hexes these foul druid stones are liable to cast our way.”

  “There must be a better place to camp,” Dokie said, scratching at his rear again.

  “We dare not search for another spot so late.” Nail walked back to the pony, leaving Liz Hen and Dokie with the standing-stones. He took up the ax, somewhat glad to feel it in his grasp again, if but briefly. He tied it to Lilly’s back, then tucked one hand beneath the saddlebags to keep it warm against the chestnut pony’s steaming flesh.

  “It’s all right, girl.” He patted the pony’s muzzle with his other hand. “You can take a breather now.” Lilly nickered, pushing her head against his chest. Her breath steamed high into the darkening forest. She was one of the few things Shawcroft had left him. Nail realized he was now alone in an unforgiving world. The freedom he had longed for was laid out before him, and it was terrifying.

  Stefan and Gisela returned bearing armfuls of dead pine needles and brush. They placed them in the clearing Liz Hen had created, then left for the trees again, returning with smaller branches and stacking them at the edge of camp. Liz Hen piled the wood and brush over the pine needles. Dokie lit a torch and jammed it into the pile. The brush hissed and smoldered, and small wisps of smoke wafted this way and that. But soon the torch flame took hold and the damp wood sputtered and sparked. They all gathered around and stared into the crackling glow.

  It was Gisela who broke her gaze from the fire first and noticed the snow-covered mushrooms growing at the base of the standing-stones. She went to them immediately and attempted to pull them up, unsuccessfully. She set to chopping at them with her hatchet and brought back a handful, asking if they should be cooked first. Beer Mug took one sniff of them and curled back up with Zane.

  “I wouldn’t eat them,” Nail advised.

  “He’s right,” Stefan added. “Some mushrooms are known to make folks ill.”

  “But I can’t go another day without food.” Gisela’s voice rose in pitch.

  “I’m with you, sweet pea,” Liz Hen said. “I’m for eating them.”

  “I hear poison mushrooms can rot your face off,” Dokie piped up.

  “Well, I’m already ugly.” Liz Hen snatched a mushroom from Gisela’s hand. “So if they’re goin’ to turn one of us into a bloodsucking oghul, it best be me.” She shot Nail a satisfied look whilst biting down on the cold mushroom. It crunched in her teeth, and her face twisted in disgust. But she plowed on.

  Wide-eyed, Gisela watched Liz Hen chomp away as if the big girl might actually turn into an oghul. But Liz Hen eventually spit the chewed-up bits of mushroom into the fire. “They’re disgusting,” she said. “And I’m the type who’ll down anything.”

  Gisela put a mushroom to her lips and nibbled, swallowing the morsel and nibbling some more. “Not too bad if you take them in slowly.” It wasn’t long before she’d nibbled the entire collection of mushrooms in her hands and went back to the standing-stones for more.

  “Do you think the knights still follow us?” Dokie asked. “Their dogs terrify me.”

  Nobody answered him. A creeping darkness fell over their camp like a mantle, the only sounds the crackling fire and Gisela’s chewing.

  “I want to see it again.” Gisela swallowed her last mushroom. “Will you show it to us, Nail?”

  “Show you what?”

  “The shiny blue stone. The one I found in the altar. The one in your satchel.”

  Shawcroft’s leather satchel was still hanging around his shoulder. He had become so used to it dangling there against his armor that he had nearly forgotten about it. He opened the leather flap and searched inside, finding the silk cloth with the stone buried under the scrolls and prayer book. He p
ulled it out, unfolded the silk, and gazed at the stone—shards of brilliant blue sparkled from its polished surface in the firelight.

  “Do you think it’s valuable?” Liz Hen asked.

  “It must be,” Stefan said. “Shawcroft asked Nail to get it, along with that ax.”

  “Can I hold it?” Dokie asked. Nail offered it to him. But as the stone slipped from the silk into Dokie’s outstretched hand, Nail felt a pang of worry. That someone else was handling it didn’t seem quite right. Dokie studied the oval gem, his eyes seeming to gaze into its blue depths. “It reminds me of the angel stones in the stained-glass windows of the chapel. One of those is blue. Do you think it is one of the angel stones?”

  “May the wraiths take you, Dokie.” Liz Hen grunted. “Don’t be a damn fool. The stones are in heaven with Laijon. Have you not read The Way and Truth of Laijon?”

  Gisela barfed into the fire, dampening the blaze and sending a shower of sparks heavenward. The cold quickly dropped around them like a shroud.

  “I told you not to eat those,” Stefan said. Gisela buckled in pain, crying.

  Nail took the stone from Dokie, wrapped it in the silk, and placed it gently back into Shawcroft’s satchel. He felt more at ease now that the stone was under his protection.

  With the fire now mostly doused by vomit, it was growing cold. He gathered an armful of wood and put it over the dying flames. Soon the fire was crackling at full strength again.

  “Falling asleep in this cold will kill us for sure,” Dokie said. “We should stay awake. If we huddle together under the furs, we will be warm enough. Especially if we keep the fire stoked.”

  Nail figured they should sleep in shifts, with one person staying awake and keeping the fire going. He told the others the plan, then volunteered for the first watch. He was exhausted, but not sleepy.

  “You boys will need to remove your armor,” Liz Hen said as they all began to gather under the furs. “You all smell like dirty iron pots.”